


Eggshell White Satin

by PuffleLock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angry John, Blow Jobs, First Time, Hand Jobs, Johnlock freeform, M/M, One Shot, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sherlock's Hair, Tumblr Prompt, brief mention of PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 05:31:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17238326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PuffleLock/pseuds/PuffleLock
Summary: Based onSherlock Challenge'sDecember prompt of "Painting."John's stuck at Baker street on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, cleaning up another one of Sherlock's messes.He finds though, that the day does not end as he ever could have expected.





	Eggshell White Satin

John was mad.

No, John was pissed.

No, fuck that, John was “I’ve run out of words to describe how utterly infuriated I am at my spectacular prick of a flatmate because I didn’t go to some poncy public school like him and I don’t have the fucking thesaurus memorized.” The one tiny bright spot at the moment was that Sherlock was nowhere near him (even though Sherlock’s absence was the main cause of his anger)  because if he were, John was fairly certain he would have strangled the madman by now.

John was currently sweating his arse off, his earbuds in, listening to the loudest, angriest playlists he had saved on his phone; globs of dried and drying paint sticking in his hair, on his arms, all over his clothes. He was in this state, because he was currently standing barefoot on a too-short ladder, paint roller over his head, going over the bathroom ceiling. He had just finished with the walls and was now stuck in the ridiculously painful position of painting overhead, injured shoulder groaning, but John was too damn stubborn and pissed off to stop.

Why, you ask, was John spending a beautiful late Summer Sunday afternoon by himself, repainting the Baker Street bathroom, stewing in absolute wrath at Sherlock, instead of taking Angie, the cute blonde dog-walker he chatted up at the pub last night, up on her offer of nice museum and lunch date this afternoon? Because John had sworn to Mrs. Hudson that the bathroom would be repainted no later than today after his insufferable “genius” of a mate had conducted some god-forsaken experiment in the loo, causing a foul-smelling acid cloud that literally, _literally,_ melted the paint off the walls.

After one of the most blazing “domestics” the two had ever had, John had somehow managed to get Sherlock to agree to help repaint the bathroom, since this disaster was entirely his fault in the first place. John absolutely refused to allow Mrs. Hudson to pay for anything, but the current state of their bank accounts would not allow for them to pay for professionals to take care of it (since _someone_ habitually forget to charge for their consulting services). So desperate to get out of actual work, Sherlock had even contemplated, out loud, finding an excuse to have one of Mycroft’s minions do the job for them.

John refused to allow that, too. He was adamant that this was Sherlock’s shit-show of a mess, and he would fix it, or at least fucking help, for god’s sake. Now, it would appear that the only reason that Sherlock had agreed to anything was because, it seems, he never intended to help at all.

John had come home Saturday night, after a few pints with Greg to find Sherlock on the couch, curled up, working on his laptop. John had reminded him that they would be working on the bathroom in the morning. Sherlock had waved him off, uttered some trite platitude, like he always did if he was so inclined to speak at all, before John went up to his room. He woke up the next morning, not exactly looking forward to painting, but was resigned to get it done. They didn’t have some giant master-suite of a bathroom, so he figured that with the two of them at it, it should only take a few hours to clean up the old paint still clinging to the walls and get a few coats up.

When he finally extricated himself from his entirely too comfortable bed, he treaded downstairs to a disturbingly quiet flat. It should have been the perfect time for Sherlock to be awake; early enough for him to still be up if he never had gone to sleep, but not late enough for him to have passed out from exhaustion yet. But John knew he was alone. When Sherlock was home, John could just sense his presence, like walking into a room and “hearing” the electronic hum of a muted tv before seeing it.

Sherlock obviously wasn’t in the sitting room, kitchen, or bathroom. John knew he had to check his bedroom, even though he generally tried to stay away from the man’s room. Sherlock may have had zero concept of privacy, but John still felt it right to keep up the pretense of civility, at least on his part.

John stepped down the hallway to Sherlock’s door. He tapped lightly on the wood, calling his name. Nothing. John took a breath and turned the knob. As he suspected, the room was empty. John looked around at his friend’s room, taking advantage of the moment. He was always amazed, with the cluttered state Sherlock left the rest of the flat, how neat and orderly his bedroom was. Nothing out of place, everything neatly hung up or put away. The bed was made, and from what John could see, it didn’t look like it had been slept in the previous night.

John stepped out, shutting the door behind him, and made his way up to his bedroom to get his phone from the charger. He was breathing slowly and counting to himself, just like Ella had taught him, because he could feel the slow tendrils of anger, like an invasive vine, starting to creep up, wanting to worm their way into John’s psyche. He knew he couldn’t assume Sherlock was _gone_ gone… maybe he just stepped out. John knew it was bullshit, but he didn’t want to fly off the handle. He was being so good about keeping his temper in check.

He got to his room, grabbed his phone from the nightstand and was greeted with a woefully blank notification screen. Breathing nice and slow and even, but not quite as well as before, he went back downstairs and made his way to the kitchen. John was trying - oh so very hard - to not lose his shit right now and part of that required tea, a nice big cup of tea. Once in the kitchen, though, his eyes spotted a note on the counter, tucked under the kettle.

Sherlock wasn’t the only one who could deduce the cause of someone’s actions. Take this moment for instance; Sherlock didn’t wake John to tell him he was going somewhere, that was completely normal behaviour; he usually texted to let him know. There had been far too many near and actual kidnappings between the two of them that it didn’t make sense that they wouldn’t let each other have at least a vague sense of where they were expected to be.  So, no text but a physical note. Sherlock never left him a note before. John reached out and unfolded the paper.

_Case in Brighton. Could not be delayed. Taking next available train. Your assistance is not necessary. I will likely be gone all day, possibly tomorrow as well._

_SH_

Breath. Breath... Breath…. Right, so a note, because Sherlock was being considerate, letting him know. Right? No. It meant Sherlock was placating John with the fucking note. A handwritten note, left downstairs for John to find when he woke - and Sherlock was long gone - meant no possibility of John waking to the sound of a notification from his phone if Sherlock had texted, since experience told John that god-knows-who might need to contact him any time, day or night, so he had to keep the sound up on his phone at all times.

Sherlock fucking snuck out in the middle of the night like some bratty fucking teenager, all to avoid having to clean up his fucking mess.

So, now, because John was the honourable, if not a bit incensed, man he was, he would not back out of the promise he made to Mrs. Hudson to get it done. Here he was, by himself, spending hours chipping away the old paint before painting over the evidence of Sherlock’s selfish idiocy. He reached out, trying to paint the far corner of the ceiling, but of course, being the shorter man he was, just could not close that small gap. John was tired, and he did not feel like getting down and moving the ladder, just for a few centimeters. Instead of heeding the warning on the top step that said “DO NOT USE AS STEP,” he held the wall with his left hand to balance himself, stepped up and reached over that last bit of space to get the corner.

Standing back up straight, still with a hand on the wall, he looked at the ceiling, happy to see at least the first coat finally done. There was something about seeing part of this project completed that calmed John down considerably, sweeping away a few of the tendrils of anger clinging to him. He was still pissed, but no longer in the *sniff and grin* stage anymore. This meant a well-deserved break; tea, a quick sandwich, and a chance to sit the fuck down. As he moved to take his phone from his pocket to turn off the deafening cacophony of sound pouring into his eardrums, a flash of movement caught his eye, and in the next half-second he felt a touch on the back of his calf. Fight or flight instinct took hold (and John’s always tended towards ‘fight’) and John swept around, ready to face whatever threat was behind him; thankfully only a wobbling a bit on the ladder but not falling off. He did unfortunately, kick the paint can pretty hard in the process.

This would have been an advantage, if it were an actual intruder, ready to attack, but as it were, it was Sherlock, for once in the lower position of the two. This meant he caught the full wave of paint as the can toppled over. John turned fully and saw that Sherlock's hair and shirt were absolutely covered in semi-gloss eggshell white paint, with a shocked look on his face, (that miraculously survived with only a few drops), that despite everything - the anger, the “holy shit who the fuck is my flat” feeling, the surprise at seeing Sherlock here at all – John stared until he couldn’t help it and started laughing his ass off, almost losing his balance on the ladder again.

Sherlock just stood there, mouth agape as John regained his balance, pulled the earbuds out, and climbed down the ladder, still giggling at him.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry! I know, I know, I really shouldn’t be laughing, but shit... Hey, Sherlock, are you ok?”

Sherlock stood there, hands out, before looking down at his ruined shirt (At least it wasn’t the purple one that John found himself going a bit dry in the mouth whenever Sherlock wore). He raised his eyes and met John’s, blinked a few times, his brain still working out what the hell just happened. John watched the whole process play itself out, until Sherlock’s eyes slowly slid up trying to see the tips of his fringe hanging in his face, before lowering his gaze back down to meet John’s again.

“Is it… in my hair?”

John flicked his eyes up and saw that yes, Sherlock’s hair was covered. “Yup,” he said with a smirk, trying his best to not start giggling again.

“FUCK!”

John stopped, startled by the harsh word flung from Sherlock’s with such ferocity. He had never heard Sherlock use that word before, barely heard any curse word come out of his mouth. John found himself surprised, not only at it’s usage and duress in which it was said, but also at the sudden warm feeling in the lower half of his torso that the expletive thrown from Sherlock’s mouth gave him. Especially with the accompanying deep breaths John could hear Sherlock taking, like what he did earlier to calm himself down. For some reason, way back in John’s little lizard brain, he imagined hearing those noises coming from Sherlock for entirely different reasons.

He pushed it aside, because another thought rose to forefront. “Well, what the hell did you expect Sherlock?! Did you suddenly forget that your flatmate is an ex-soldier with a rather healthy, or unhealthy shall I say, case of PTSD? You can’t sneak up on me like that. I don’t exactly respond well to being startled.” He hated talking about what the PTSD did to him, he felt weak that his messed-up brain caused his body to react in ways that were completely out of his control. He especially hated admitting weakness to Sherlock, but dammit, if the git wasn’t careful, John could hurt him, and he could not let that happen. He puffed himself up a bit, defenses raised, ready to bear whatever bullshit that Sherlock wanted to spew at him, somehow trying to make this his fault.

Surprisingly though, the outlash didn’t happen. Sherlock looked out of depth for a moment, before a soft crinkle appeared between his eyes. He looked up at John, and said the one thing that John thought he would never, in a million years, hear from the detective.

“I’m really sorry, John. I wasn’t trying to startle you. I didn’t realize you had headphones in and could not hear me.”

John stood for a moment, doing a fair impression of Sherlock’s “blink-blink-blink I don’t understand” look. In all the months they’ve lived and worked together, Sherlock had never apologized for anything; leaving body parts in the fridge, his overall rudeness, his verbal attacks when in one of his strops. Hell, he hadn’t even apologized for melting the damn bathroom. And here he was, apologizing for startling John.

Finally, John came back, all residual touches of anger gone. “It’s ok, Sherlock. Just be careful, please. I would hate to do something to hurt you if…. Yeah.”

“Well, you did ruin my shirt; do you have any idea how expensive this was?” he asked, gesturing down, like he somehow suddenly cared about money. The way the corner of his lip couldn’t help curling up, completely giving away his attempt at a joke.

“More than I’m sure I make at the clinic in a week, no, probably month.”

“Actually, I have no idea, it was a gift from Mummy for Christmas last year, though I do admit I rather liked this one. Ok, now let’s see how bad the rest of this is.” He said with a resigned grimace as he tilted his eyes back up at his hair again.

While John watched, Sherlock turned to face the mirror. His eyes rose to the top of his head, where there was a rather sizeable glob of paint on the top of Sherlock’s head, flattening down his beautiful curls. John had no idea how so much could’ve gotten there, the can must’ve spun in just the right way to get over Sherlock’s taller frame like that.

Sherlock tilted his head down to get a better look at the blob of eggshell paint in his hair. The look on his face was a bit terrible for John to watch.

“You ok Sherlock? It’s just paint, you’ll be fine.”

Sherlock turned sharply to glare at John, “Obviously, John, I know that.” He paused, let the defense down for just one quick second, took a deep breath in then out. “I know I’m not much to look at, and this may sound unjustifiably vain, but I actually like my hair. I know it’s just hair, it’ll grow back but…”

_Not much to look at? Who the fuck is he kidding? Wait…. What? Grow back???_

“Sherlock? Do you think you have to cut it off or something?

“Well, of course, there’s no way to get all this out. My hair is ruined.”

Sometimes John could not believe the idiot in front of him. He couldn’t help letting a soft chuckle.

“Sherlock, how is it possible for you to be the mad genius you are, with a degree from fucking Cambridge, do the unspeakable experiments around this flat that you do, and you NOT know how to get house paint out of your hair? How?”

“You can wash this out? I don’t have to cut my hair?

“Yes, of course we can wash it out, you berk.” John shook his head; how could he be so naive sometimes? Before he had the chance to second guess himself, “Go on, get your shirt off.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to give John the wide-eyed “blink-blink-blink” look back.

“The faster we wash it, the easier it will be to come out. Trust me, Harry went through an artistic phase back in secondary, we learned how to do this pretty quickly.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier if I just took a shower, John?” Sherlock muttered quietly, almost nervous sounding. John wondered where this change came from. Jesus, the man walked around half-naked all the time, why now?

“Eh, it’s kind of all over, so would probably be easier to have someone else get it for you, at least your hair. Come on, I’ve seen you without your shirt on plenty of times.”

_And loved it every single time._

Ok, no, this was not the time for those thoughts; the ones John had very comfortably, well at least forcibly,  pushed far back where they wouldn't come out and jeopardize his friendship with Sherlock. He had been dumb enough to attempt flirting with the man during that first stake out, but was promptly shut down, so John knew any of _that_ kind of attention was unwanted. The months since had done nothing but make John want the man even more, but part of that was because he had never had a best friend that knew him as well a Sherlock did. John could be himself around Sherlock, completely and totally, except for the tiny detail of being completely and totally in love with him.

No, this is just offering help to his mate. John let his open, caring “Doctor face” show up at Sherlock. The detective let out a small huff, and started unbuttoning his shirt. John turned to the shower and pulled the handheld showerhead down. They had learned after many stitches and bandages that having a handheld was easier all around. He laid a towel over the side of the tub and got the water going, holding on to the showerhead until it was heated up.

“OK, bring the stool over here, sit and lean your head back.” John let the showerhead go, made sure it didn’t spray anywhere it wasn’t supposed to, and grabbed shampoo from the closet. He had stashed away soap he started “borrowing” from the clinic that was meant to clean away the _really_ messy things. With what the two boys got up to, they went through a lot of it.

Sherlock sat down and leaned against the tub but didn't put his head back yet.

John looked down at him, with his knees tucked up like he always does when he was antsy about something, looking a bit more lost than he would expect. “Ok, we’ll start with the super-shampoo. I’m guessing that’s going to get most, if not all of it out. Get your head back and we’ll get this done.”

One last strange look up at John, and Sherlock leaned back, untucking those longs legs out for balance, and set his head over the edge of the tub and closed his eyes. John smiled, taking the opportunity to gaze down at Sherlock’s bare chest a slight longer than he would, had Sherlock’s eyes been open, before grabbing the showerhead. He rinsed over Sherlock’s hair with the warm water, hoping to get a lot to rinse out before even getting the shampoo to it.

He lost himself for a moment, spraying over those wavy locks he had so often fantasized about before John realized he was getting hit with the spray bouncing off Sherlock’s head. He stopped to look down at himself, shirt wet and clinging to his chest, but figured the shirt was already trashed from the paint, no need to worry about it now. He caught Sherlock peak one eye open, before quickly shutting it again; a barely there shiver running down the genius’ long frame. John raised an eyebrow but stopped himself from thinking anything of it. _Probably just cold cause I took the water away._

John flipped the showerhead to the stronger setting, seeing as the gentle setting they usually had it on did a pretty good job, so figured amping it up would work even better.

The moment the spray hit Sherlock’s head, the shiver ran down him again. John chalked it up to the temperature shift again. He rinsed over Sherlock’s dark hair for a few swipes, bracing himself. Under entirely different circumstances than he had ever considered, he was finally getting the opportunity to touch Sherlock’s hair. With the showerhead in his right hand, he lowered his left to the detective’s head. He stopped just short for one last deep breath, and then plunged his fingers in to those inky locks. He allowed himself one brief selfish moment to relish in the feel. Even with the paint, Sherlock hair felt perfect, better than anything John had ever dreamt. He quickly tucked the memory away, resigning himself to revisit the moment much later tonight, in the privacy of his bedroom, and focused on the task at hand.

He laid the showerhead down, grabbed the shampoo, and squeezed a large dollop into his palm. He touched Sherlock’s shoulder, lightly, “getting ready for the shampoo part. This will take care of it. Nothing's had a chance to dry yet, so it's coming out pretty easy.”

“Ok John. And thank you.”

Oh! An apology AND a thank you! This was certainly a day to mark on the calendar.

“You're welcome, Sherlock. It's really not that big of a deal, ya know.” John reached down again, smoothing the shampoo into Sherlock’s curls. He took both hands, and began scrubbing his hair, letting a good lather build up. Sherlock closed his eyes and John could've sworn he heard a small sigh come from Sherlock.

Shaking his head to clear the untoward thoughts he was having about his gorgeous friend, he focused his attention on Sherlock’s hair. He realized as he worked, some paint had managed to soak down to Sherlock’s scalp, so he started really using his fingertips to wash it away. He felt Sherlock tense for a moment, his breathing coming slightly faster.

John worried that he was making Sherlock uncomfortable by doing this for him. The madman may not be have any sense of privacy, but John realized how infrequently they touched, only ever in the aftermath of chases and fights, bandaging up whatever damage the two fools managed to have inflict upon themselves. John recognized how little Sherlock seemed to let anyone touch him, and now here he was, practically giving the man an erotic head massage. He needed something to distract him while he finished.

“So, forgot to ask, with all this happening, but why the the hell are you home anyway? Your note said you'd be gone til tomorrow.”

Sherlock took a second to respond, and John could see his fists clench and unclench on his lap briefly before he spoke.

“Yes, that was the original plan. I could not sleep last night, and I was bored, so I was going over the website, looking for an interesting case. The one I mentioned in my note came in around three this morning. It seemed rather fascinating, really, close to an 8. I suspected you'd be extremely tired after being out with Lestrade last night, so I didn't want to risk waking you, hence the handwritten note. That new notification on your phone really is horrid, by the way.” He peeked his eye open and grinned at John before closing it again.” In my excitement and haste, I forgot about today - about us painting the bathroom. I didn't remember until I was halfway there. I resolved to solve it as quickly as possible in order to get back. Thankfully, as I reviewed the case on the train, it was nowhere near as exciting as it first seemed, and I was able to solve it shortly after I made it to Brighton. I presented my findings to the client, bought a return ticket for the next train and returned as quickly as I could.”

John was the one distracted now, no longer washing Sherlock’s hair as he listened to him speak. He was amazed, flabbergasted even, that Sherlock hadn't bailed on him like he thought, just got distracted with a puzzle. That wasn't uncommon for him, really, he just usually stayed in town when it happened. And he came back; he actually came back to fix his mistake. John shook himself to bring him back to the now and begin rinsing out Sherlock’s hair, taking his time to scrub with his fingers to make sure all the soap was out.

“Why didn't you text me, let you know you were on your way back?”

With his voice slightly strained, ( _must be from having his head back like this for so long)_ “I umm … actually I… I forgot my phone charger,” he said with a grimace.” I was going to get one at the station, but they were out of my kind. I didn't have time to try to find a shop that carried mine before my train was set to leave.”

OK, so Sherlock was forgetful, distracted, but not actively being a dick. This, John could handle.

Almost all the paint was out, one more wash and Sherlock’s hair would be back to normal. John repeated the process, and saw Sherlock’s reaction much the same as the first time. He tried to be brief, rinsing it quickly, but thoroughly, so he'd be able to get out of Sherlock’s space; it was apparent that the closeness was making him uncomfortable.

“Ok, one last thing. The paint’s out, but don’t want your hair trashed.” The industrial shampoo was murder on the hair, so John grabbed Sherlock’s expensive conditioner, and poured a generous amount out. Sherlock closed his eyes, while John smoothed the product through Sherlock’s hair, combing his fingers through the curls to the ensure the conditioner was spread throughout. He allowed himself an extra swipe or two, knowing he was almost done and this moment would be over. He waited a minute, before rinsing one last time. Carding his fingers through to make sure all the conditioner was out, he was sad that it was almost over. He knew he was being a selfish man, finding any kind of pleasure at all from this when Sherlock so obviously was not. He couldn’t stop the tightness in his chest for once to have been allowed this close to the man he had fallen for.

All said and done, cleaned and rinsed, John set the showerhead down and turned the taps off. Sherlock started to sit up, but with a fleeting touch to his shoulder, John stopped him and reached over him one last time. He leaned over Sherlock to pulled his hair back and squeeze any excess water out that he could. That last, slightly forceful tug brought a sharp gasp to Sherlock’s lips that surprised John.

What surprised him even more was when he was dropped his hands and turned to look down. He saw Sherlock’s eyes screwed shut, his hands clenched in fists over his belly, and a very prominent, very unmistakeable erection tenting Sherlock’s trousers.

John stopped breathing, his heart in his throat. The sight below him sent red heat straight to his groin. He thought Sherlock incapable; he could never had hoped, only dream about. He was still looming over Sherlock, hands at the side of the younger man’s head. He tore his eyes from Sherlock’s lap to see the man’s face. He knew he should back away, but Sherlock still had not opened his eyes and John had to see, had to read him, had to know. He looked down with that crinkle between his eyes that he couldn’t help and waited; his body completely incapable of moving until he saw.

Sherlock’s lips parted and a trembling breath escaped. His eyes slowly opened, lost, until they met John’s. What John saw, for the briefest, brightest flash, was pure unadulterated want. Those impossible kaleidoscope eyes were on fire and the sight of it burned a trail straight to John's cock. Sherlock blinked and the heat was gone, replaced by wide-eyed fear. His pulled his head up and looked down at himself, seeing his trousers standing tall. Sherlock’s eyes flung back up and met John’s again for the briefest moment.

The next thing John knew he was being pushed to the side, and he stumbled straight to his arse, onto the ground. Sherlock was up, grabbing a towel hanging on the rack, and ran through the door to his room. While John's brain tried desperately to catch up with whatever the hell just happened, he heard the distinct click of the lock slamming home, followed by the crash of the bedroom’s hallway door and one more click.

John sat there, stunned; too many thoughts competing for his attention. Sherlock had a fucking hard-on, god it was beautiful. That was because of him… What he was doing. His eyes… that look. But why did he run away? Was that just some bodily reaction, betrayal of his transport? He didn't want it, he was embarrassed.

No, that look… John knew that look. Please, God, Sherlock wanted him.

John got up slowly. A slow bloom of hope spread across his chest. He knew he was about to do either the greatest thing or the dumbest thing he'd ever done in his life. He could not ignore this, not after the look he saw in Sherlock’s eyes. He had long ago reserved himself to take what he could from Sherlock, never wanting to risk the friendship that had saved his life, innumerable times. But now, after seeing that fire burning in Sherlock’s eyes, he would never be able to forget it; God help him, that moment would eat at him for the rest of his life if he ignored it. For the first time ever, John believed, he saw Sherlock at his most open, most honest, most vulnerable.

Now, he knew he would have to be the one to push. If he left this to Sherlock, John suspected the two would never talk about it; act like it never happened. John did not want this moment to be pushed aside, or buried or fucking _deleted._ He knew he couldn't push too hard though, or Sherlock would turn into a pouting toddler and refuse to speak or worse; remove himself from John’s life entirely.

He briefly considered making tea first, to give himself time to cool down, but he realized, he couldn’t. He didn't want cool down. He could still feel the tension in the air, and if he was being honest with himself, he loved it. They were on the verge of something huge, something monumentally important. He wouldn't disrespect this moment by being a scared little chicken-shit and stalling.

Walking up to Sherlock’s door was one of the most frightening and exhilarating  things he had ever done. He had to move forward, but he was terrified; the harsh paranoid voice in his head kept spewing doubt, ‘You didn’t see anything... It’s all in your head... He doesn’t want you... Why would he ever want _you_?’ The thought of losing Sherlock if he was somehow wrong was making him nauseous, but he felt, no... he knew, he was on the right path when he finally brought his hand up and knocked.

“Sherlock?”

Silence.

“Sherlock, please open the door.”

More silence.

“Jesus Sherlock, will you please open this door? I know you’re in there, I’d have heard if you slipped off the fire escape. I’m not as unobservant as you think, you know.”

Nothing. John took a deep breath, leaning his head against the glass for a moment.

“Sherlock, remember, I can pick a lock just as well as you can.”

Of course, nothing from the detective on the other side of the door.

“Fine, be right back.”

John went into the sitting room to pull the lock pick set from the inside pocket of Sherlock’s coat, since he had misplaced John's the last time he had “borrowed” it. When John pulled the set out, a slip of paper fell out and fluttered to the ground. The paper was loosely folded, but John recognized it as a paper Sherlock must have used for taking notes, there were his telltale doodles swirled on the inside bits he could see, as he tended to do when he was thinking. What caught his attention though, was ‘SH + JW’ in the corner, just barely showing, amongst the swirls. John knew it was A Bit Not Good, an invasion of privacy, but he couldn't stop himself as he reached down to grab the paper.

He unfolded it slowly, and looked. It was a page of notes from the Brighton case, swirls here and there over the paper. Not only were their initials gracing the corner of the paper, but there were also small sketches at the bottom of the paper; all of him.

He had no idea, first of all, that Sherlock could draw, only ever seeing simple sketches done during one of his experiments or on his notes during cases. But this, this was amazing, small simple sketches, just of his face, but it captured him perfectly with a few quick lines; his smile when Sherlock surprises him with a dark joke, the crinkle in his eyes when he's amazed by Sherlock’s deductions, and even one of his soft Doctor face.

A warm, unexpected feeling came over John. He knew he didn't read a damn thing wrong about today. He was been wrong before, all these months, but he was not wrong about this.

He slipped back down the hallway, and put his hand to the hallway door.

“Please Sherlock. Please open the door.” When silence again followed, (God, he was a stubborn man) he slipped the paper under the door.

“Just so you know, this fell out of your pocket while I was getting your lock picks out of your coat. Thought you might want it back.” He knew Sherlock’s curiosity would get the better of him, and it did. He kneeled down and started to work on the lock, but listened for and heard the creaks and shifting as Sherlock got up from his bed. After a few moments, while John was doing his best on the lock, the door flew open and John found himself staring down at Sherlock’s bare feet. He looked up to see Sherlock, shirt back on, standing in front of him, looming, with a strange look on his face.

“So what is this now, snooping on me, John? Rifling through my things?”

“No, you lost my lock pick, so I was simply borrowing yours. When I took it out of your coat, that came along for the ride.”

Sherlock’s eyes looked down, silently pleading with John, before he raised his defenses, a look of uptight indifference falling over his face.

“This isn't anything, John.” He waved the paper as nonchalantly as possible, “Please delete this whole ridiculous situation.”

John finally stood up, because he was not about to have a this conversation kneeling directly in front of Sherlock’s crotch - he would be entirely too distracted.

“What?”

John held Sherlock’s eyes; he would not let this go, he would not break. He wanted this too badly.

“Delete this whole ridiculous afternoon.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No Sherlock,” John said, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s as he stepped closer, “I do not want to delete anything about this afternoon. Anything. And I don't think you want to either.”

He reached out slowly to the madman in front of him. He paused, fingertips a hair's breadth from Sherlock’s face. His voice low and soft, more desperate than he intended, “Please say I'm right.”

Sherlock’s eyes dropped first, and with a vulnerability John had never heard in the younger man's voice, he whispered, “No John.”

John's heart stopped, he froze, his world dropping away. Sherlock looked him straight in his eyes.

“No John, you are not wrong.”

Those quiet, almost silent words were what gave John life again, and the strength to close that minute gap that contained infinite possibilities. Calloused fingertips slowly grazed Sherlock’s cheeks and before Sherlock could stop himself, he leaned into John's touch with lowered eyes and a quiet sigh.

John smiled warmly up at Sherlock, “You can't just say I'm right, can you, you bloody git?”

John took Sherlock’s face, gently bringing both hands to cradle the face of the miracle of a man before him. He swept his thumbs across the razor-sharp cheekbones that he had fantasized about for so long.

He took that last step into Sherlock’s space, and reached up on his toes to make up for height difference. Leaning forward until he could feel the warmth of Sherlock’s breath on his skin and take in in the unmistakable scent of him, John stopped just short of contact.

“Sherlock, if I am wrong about this, plea..”

His words were cut short as Sherlock leaned down and closed that last tiny gap. Their lips met and John's brain exploded. All that existed for him now were Sherlock’s soft lips on his, and it was perfection. Their lips slid together as two puzzle pieces finally finding their way to each other. John’s hand reached further back to grip Sherlock’s neck, threading his fingers up into Sherlock’s damp curls as Sherlock put his arms around John’s back, pulling him in tight, notes long forgotten on the floor, his fingers digging into the muscle of John’s shoulders.  John tilted his head, lips parting, tongue seeking permission, which Sherlock enthusiastically granted.

As their tongues touched, the two men were lost to each other. The kiss grew quickly from near chaste revenance to something heated and filthy. John felt himself pushing Sherlock back until he was up against the door. John dug his hips, pinning Sherlock down while they continued to snog senseless. Each passionate slide of lips and tongues went straight to John’s cock and from what he felt, heavy and hard pushing against his belly, straight to Sherlock’s as well.

With fierce determination in his eye, John pulled back. He wanted to see Sherlock like this; lost in this moment, debauched, skinned blushed with arousal. Sherlock stayed still, eyes closed, breath ragged, his genius brain completely short-circuited, not yet caught up. He slowly opened his eyes, but did not meet John’s; confusion, and seemingly a hundred other thoughts and emotions crashing behind those eyes.

“My god, Sherlock, do you realize how fucking beautiful you are?”

Sherlock’s eyes lifted, seeking out John’s. He stared hard into the doctor’s eyes, searching, that gaze as intense as if it were going over a locked-room triple murder.

John kept his focus, tried to show him everything he felt, everything he had stamped down and denied to himself, to everyone else, to Sherlock. He finally let go of the fear of losing the most important man in his life and waited patiently.

Slowly, the scrunch between Sherlock’s eyes softened, and he whispered, “You mean that.” It wasn’t a question.

“Of course I do, you amazing fool.” John reached up to card his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “Jesus, Sherlock, you are the most gorgeous, most exquisite human being I have ever laid eyes on.” He gripped onto Sherlock’s hair and tugged ever so slightly, just enough to pull Sherlock’s head back, exposing more of that ridiculously long, beautiful neck. John prayed that the Sherlock’s reaction in the bathroom wasn’t a one-off when it came to his hair.

It wasn’t.

The moan that fell from Sherlock’s mouth was pure pornography to John’s ears. All the months of fantasies were nothing compared to hearing it real and true, feeling it rumble through him as he pressed against the younger man. He latched onto the alabaster skin before him, lips sweeping up his throat, sucking kisses down unto the hard line of his collarbone. Sherlock’s mouth hung open, heavy panting breaths escaping as John slowly led him backwards to the bed.

When he knew they were close, John held Sherlock tight and spun until his knees hit the mattress. Sherlock huffed a little “oh” of surprise and fell to the edge of the bed. John took advantage of the temporary higher position that he had and loomed over Sherlock, his hands slowly caressing the younger man's face, running his fingers down the sensitive skin of Sherlock’s neck, all the while taking the man apart with slow deep kisses. Sherlock slowly raised his hands to John's hip and gripped tightly, pulling John in closer. He closed the gap, insinuating himself between the detective's knees. Sherlock took the opportunity to hook his ankles around John's legs caging him in, not letting go.

John's hands caressed Sherlock’s chest, relishing in the the feeling of the solid man underneath the soft material of his shirt. He was suddenly crazy with the need to see Sherlock; he was wearing entirely too many clothes and John had to see all of him. Now. He reached for Sherlock’s top button, but before undoing it, he pulled back and looked down.

“Ok?”

“Oh God, yes.”

John leaned down and kissed Sherlock’s forehead gently, then leaned back to watch as he slowly slid the button free, thumb grazing the now exposed skin, dark thunder cloud eyes focused purely on Sherlock, not allowing him to look away.

“Do you have any idea how long I have dreamt of this, Sherlock? Do you have any idea how long I have wanted to devour you?”

Sherlock could only slowly shake his head, while John pulled another button reverently from its mooring. The unhurried trail of his fingertips continuing their tantalizing descent.

“Do you have any idea how absolutely mad about you I am? That I would do anything, absolutely anything to have you in my life, Sherlock?”

One, two, three more buttons undone. Sherlock tried to drop his eyes, but John would not let him. He put his fingertip under Sherlock’s chin and nudged him to look up. With a firm grip, he pulled Sherlock’s shirt from his trousers, then took care of the last two buttons, slipping the fabric from his shoulders. John kissed the exposed skin of his shoulders before garnering the strength to look Sherlock in the eyes one more time.

“Do you have any idea how much I love you?”

Unshed tears glistened in Sherlock’s eyes as they flashed straight to John's. Sherlock swallowed hard and with a choked voice, “Apparently, I see, but I did not observe.” Long fingers wrapped around the back of John's head dragging him down to a crushing, brutal kiss. Sherlock fell back to the bed, taking John with him. He caught himself, knuckles down, caging Sherlock’s chest, his lips never leaving the madman's.

They each frantically explored the other, as far as they could reach, electric shocks of passion with each grip, each lick, each deep, passionate kiss. John felt the burn against his lips as he dragged brutal sucking kisses across the stubble of Sherlock’s jaw. Sherlock moaned as he licked and nibbled at the edge of John's ear.

“John.” The rich baritone voice, now obscenely low and rough, whispered straight into his ear, “I do believe you are wearing entirely too many clothes.” His hands were already pulling John's vest out from his jeans, hands caressing the skin underneath.

John lifted up and wrenched the tattered thing over his head, thrown off to God knows what region of the floor. He looked down at Sherlock and was met with a look of awe. He openly took in the sight of John's bare chest, not hiding the hunger in his gaze. John could not help but feel worshipped under that gaze. Sherlock explored the edge of John's jeans, touch light enough that it bordered that razor sharp line between ticklish and the most erotic sensation John had ever felt.

With his voice somehow managing to drop even deeper, Sherlock looked to John, “Well, John do you have any fucking idea how to gorgeous you are?” John blushed,  chuckled softly, and pulled himself, rather reluctantly, out from the trap of Sherlock’s legs. He crawled up around Sherlock, causing Sherlock to lift his head, then roll to his belly to follow John's movements.

When he finally settled back against the headboard, he reached over to Sherlock. “Come here love, I need to feel you.”

Like a panther stalking his prey, Sherlock crawled up the bed and straddle John's lap. He reached down to cup John's face, holding him there for a short eternity, drinking in the heat in John's eyes.  Sherlock finally leaned down to capture John's lips in another brutal kiss; his movements causing his plush arse to drag down John's straining erection.

If John had not been the most turned on he had ever been in his life, he would have been ashamed at the desperate moan he poured into Sherlock’s mouth. As it were, the friction was heaven and hell and Sherlock, the genius he was, knew it. He moved again, slower, purposely dragging his body over John, their hard lengths rubbing slowly through too many layers, eliciting the same moan from John again, but louder, needier. John gripped tightly on to bony hips of the man above him, pulling him closer, dragging his own hips up to meet him, his body seeking more.

Sherlock’s long nimble fingers dug into the chest of the army doctor below him as he rolled his hips again, both men now moaning at the delicious sensation. John hands came up to the buckle of Sherlock’s belt. He eased the buckle open then slowly slid the leather strip free from its mooring. Sherlock was in awe, watching John slowly undo his trousers. John's fingers ran under the loosened fabric to grab unto Sherlock’s ample arse, kneading the flesh, still in utter amazement that this was happening. With a stuttered breath, he looked up at the man he was so desperately in love with.

“How did I get so fucking lucky?”

“I'd hardly call yourself lucky, John. For some reason, you find yourself attracted to a lanky self-proclaimed sociopath. Now me… I am the lucky one. A stunningly handsome, kind, warm, bad-ass of an army doctor loves me? Finds _me_ attractive? If I believed in reincarnation, I'd have to thank the actions of a past life, because I've certainly not been done anything in this one to deserve it.”

John grabbed Sherlock by shoulders and rolled the two of them, reversing positions, so that now he was straddling the younger man, looking down at him.  “First of all, you are not lanky; you are strong, long and lean, and beyond measure, beautiful. Secondly, we both know that that sociopath bit is a load of bollocks.” John slowly kissed Sherlock’s face - the corner of his lips, the ever present crease between his eyes, the oh-so-sensitive bit at Sherlock’s jaw, right below his ear. “You feel immensely; you have some of the most deep-rooted emotions I have ever seen. You try to hide all of that, but I see, Sherlock. Please, you never have to hide from me again. Please say that you know that.”

A single line of wetness trailed from Sherlock’s eye, “Yes John, I know.” He reached up to pull John down to him, kissing him deep and long. He pulled away finally, not letting go of John, still holding his face, looking up to him. “Thank you.”

“No, love, thank you.” He rolled his hips as he dove in again to kiss Sherlock senseless. The two men were quickly breathless, panting their lust into each deep hungry kiss. Hands continued exploring, each greedily taking joy from the sighs, moans and whimpered groans they could elicit from the other, until John could feel Sherlock’s strong fingers gripping his arse.

Sherlock’s voice, soft and pleading, whispered straight to his ear “John, please, I need more. I need you, more of you.”

John shivered as that rich rumble poured through him. He pulled off Sherlock to lay at his side. Sherlock watched John's face as his hands slowly caressed his chest, down to his belly, fingers reaching into the soft dark hair above his boxers. John sat up some that he could reach both hands to Sherlock’s trousers. He looked up at Sherlock again, silently asking. Sherlock’s whispered, “Please” was all he needed. He pulled down Sherlock’s trousers slowly, Sherlock lifting his hips to make easier work of it. John threw the trousers to the floor. He turned back to drink in the sight of the long, finely muscled legs exposed beneath him, unable to stop as his fingers trailed up and down the long lines of flesh.

Sherlock reached to John's jeans, “Your turn, Doctor.”

“Anything you say, love.”

He stood up, next to the bed, and opened his fly, slowly pulling the worn jeans down. He deliberately turned so Sherlock got a full view of his arse as he bent over to pull them off his legs. The breathy moan coming from the bed put a keen grin on his face.

When he turned back to face Sherlock, he was met with the sight a very debauched, flushed-faced detective begging with everything but words to come back to him. John kneeled next to Sherlock, one leg strewn over the younger man's, taking his mouth into another long kiss.

He couldn't get enough of touching Sherlock’s strong muscled flesh; he laid next to Sherlock, one hand caressing his sensitive curls, while the other explored his exposed flesh, dipping lower with each pass, until John finally reached the waistband his black boxer briefs.

He let his fingers first roam down to the sensitive flesh until neither man could take it any longer. John reached down to gently palm at Sherlock’s strained erection, feeling the twitching heat of hard flesh below.

Sherlock gripped John's shoulders tightly, a small cry falling from his lips. John's head dropped to nuzzle Sherlock's neck. He breathed in the intoxicating scent of Sherlock, then brought his face level to capture those parted, panting lips.

He rolled back onto Sherlock, his hand rubbing delicious friction to his cock, now trapped between them for a moment. John let his weight settle, until he released his hand and pushed himself up on his knuckles.

Sherlock let out an involuntary whimper from the loss of contact, but quickly quieted, only letting out slight huffing breaths as John slowly worked his way down, kissing a trial down Sherlock’s body until he was eye level with his cock, strained in its silk confinement.

John slowly licked the small circle of damp material at the head of Sherlock’s cock. He dragged his nose along his length, nuzzling and taking in the glorious musky smell of Sherlock’s arousal. John licked along the waistband, until he slowly dipped his fingers under the elastic and pulled down.

The sight of Sherlock’s cock left him breathless. It was beautiful, like the man himself; long, perfect thickness, and uncut;  his foreskin pulled back from how hard he already was. John wrapped his sturdy nimble surgeon’s hands around Sherlock’s sensitive flesh. Like silk over steel, he pumped Sherlock slowly, eating up the small huffs and whimpers falling from Sherlock’s mouth, each sound spurring him further. He guided Sherlock’s prick to his mouth, slowly licking the sensitive corona before taking Sherlock fully into his mouth.

Sherlock hips bucked off the bed, before John's strong hands pushed him down, holding him in place. He looked up to see Sherlock’s wide, pupil blown eyes watching him. He closed his eyes, unable to concentrate with that gaze on him. He sucked and licked, tasting the drops of precum freely flowing from Sherlock’s slit. He pulled off, tonguing the sensitive hole until he felt Sherlock’s hands scrambling at his shoulders, begging him to come back to him.

Sherlock leaned up to watch John's slow crawl up his body until they were face to face, John holding himself over Sherlock so he could look down at the beauty below him. Sherlock pulled John's face down to him, kissing him again, hard, his tongue reaching deep to taste him, while his long legs wrapped around John's

“John, please, I need to see you. I need to feel your cock in my hand.”

The language alone almost killed John. To hear vulgar words from the beautiful posh bastard was blasphemy and a devotion in one. His body was still raised above Sherlock and he felt as Sherlock pulled his pants below the cup of his arse, fingers digging in, then coming round to the front to slowly drag the material down to expose his cock. The brief feeling of cool air was quickly replaced by Sherlock’s warm fingers. John's every question of how well those long nimble violinist fingers could play him were answered.

Sherlock touched him in every way that could feel good. He could read John’s every whimper, every shiver, every hiss of pleasure. John again had no doubt that Sherlock could read minds; the man could jerk him off better than he could himself.

“John… God, John, you feel so good in my hand, so hard, so heavy.” He pulled the material off John's pants down further, then somehow pulled his legs up to hook his toes into the waistband and with little of John's help, pull them off completely.

Sherlock’s cocky smile shined up at John, until he blushed and turned away for a second. John nudged his chin with his finger until they were looking at each other.

“What is it, Sherlock?”

“I have fantasized about doing that to you. For a very long time.”

A long slow smile slid across John's face before he leaned over and slowly kissed the sensitive flesh below Sherlock’s ear. He couldn’t help whispering, low,  “You’ve fantasize about me, then?”

“Nearly.. ahhh, near daily, John.”

Oh god. “Really?”

“Yes John, and I've fantasized about much more.”

A longer slower kiss.

“What else have you fantasized about?” he asked into the flesh above Sherlock’s thudding pulse as he kissed love bites in the white flesh.

With his fingers now carding through John's short blond hair, Sherlock tugged gently to bring his face back up, so he could look straight into his eyes.

“About how glorious it would feel for you to fuck me so hard that I don't remember my own name.”

John moaned so low and so deeply he surprised himself. He dropped his head onto Sherlock’s chest and settled his weight on the younger man, their positions now perfect for him to rut his cock against him. With slow rolls of his hips he felt the delicious slide of flesh against flesh.

He wrapped his arms under Sherlock’s shoulders, as he continued to rut against him. He looked back into Sherlock’s eyes.

“Are you sure about this Sherlock?”

“John, I believe I may have failed to say this earlier, but… I love you too. I love you so much and all I want, what I need right now is to be as close as possible to you.”

“God yes.”

Sherlock reached over and one handed scrambled through the drawer of his nightstand before dropping a bottle of lube on the bed next to them. “John, I need you inside me now.”

“Condoms?”

“Please, I swear to you, I've a clean bill of health. I've been tested regularly since my failings of youth, as I know you have, as well, Doctor.” he said with a raised eyebrow. “I want to feel you. Only you. Please.”

John was happy to oblige, he was always safe, but felt the same as Sherlock. He had never felt for anyone as he did for this man, and he wanted their joining to be complete, no barrier between them. He never minded the messier aspects of sex, and now the benefits far outweighed anything they had to clean up after.

John sat back on his heels, cock bobbing tall and proud against his belly. “You want to feel me Sherlock?” He reached for Sherlock’s hand, guiding him to wrap his fingers around his length. “Do you want to feel this slide inside you, stretching you, filling you?” His words were punctuated with the flick of bottle. Sherlock’s heavy panting and the slow strong tug on John's hard flesh were all the answer to his question he needed.

He pushed Sherlock’s legs apart wider and lifted him slightly, grabbing a pillow to place under his hips. He squeezed a generous drop of lube onto right hand, warming the slick liquid before gently bringing his hand down to Sherlock’s most intimate area. With the other hand slowly stroking the soft hair along Sherlock’s thigh, he stroked his perineum with the other, nudging the sensitive flesh gently, listening to the slow stream of words falling from Sherlock’s lips. He was quiet, but John could hear his own name, falling from those perfect lips, repeated like a mantra.

John hooked Sherlock’s leg over his shoulder, opening him even further. John relished in the sight of the man below him; usually so aloof and proud, laid out, panting his name in hormone-fuelled desperation. He slowly circled the puckered flesh of Sherlock’s hole with his middle finger before gently breaching the ring of muscle. Slower than he thought himself capable of at that moment, he inched his way in, before pulling out. Listening for any sounds of distress, he moved his finger back and forth, in and out, gently, lovingly.

He slowly teased the muscle, until he heard Sherlock below him, hoarsely whispering, “More John, more, please…..”

He slipped his finger out, to come back to the sensitive flesh with two. Sherlock squirmed under him, his mouth open, panting, slow whispered grunts matching the slide of John's hand.

Sherlock held onto the backs of his thighs, pulling his legs apart even more, lifting his head to look at John with pleading eyes. John's thrusts began building speed, scissoring slightly to open Sherlock’s hole.

A third finger joined the first two, John still patient and gentle, opening up Sherlock carefully. John turned his hand slightly, and crooked his fingers, seeking his prize. When Sherlock let out a loud hungry moan, scrambling to hold on to the sheets, John knew he found his mark.

“Fucking a doctor has its advantages, wouldn't you say?” He said with a proud smirk.

“Ohgodyesitdoes!! John please, I'm ready, please. I need you. I need you inside me.”

John lowered Sherlock’s legs and brought himself back up for a slow kiss. He felt Sherlock shift as he reached for the lube. He poured some out into his hands before slicking up John's hard flesh.

One final kiss before John positioned himself between Sherlock’s legs. With one hand holding Sherlock’s hips, he used his other to guide his cock to Sherlock’s entrance, squeezing the base briefly to stop himself from coming the instant he was inside like some over-excited teenager.

With his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s, he slowly felt his head breach the loosened muscle of Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock threw his head back and a sharp hiss escaped his lips. John stopped, worried he was hurting him.

Sherlock scrambled to grab John's shoulders, holding him tight, even through eyes clamped shut.

“Don't stop John, God don't stop. You feel so good. Oh my god, so good!”

Another kiss, and John continued. Inch by inch he pushed in, until he felt himself press against Sherlock’s arse. He lowered himself until he was pressed down to Sherlock’s chest holding himself up on his forearms, waiting for a sign from Sherlock to continue.

He could feel Sherlock relaxing around him until he finally opened his eyes and looked at John. He knew Sherlock was ready. He slowly shifted his hips, pulling out slowly, then thrusting in, harder this time. Again, in and out, each thrust building strength.

Sherlock was beyond words, small grunts escaping his lips with each thrust. With a long slow roll of his hips, John watched Sherlock throw his arm over his head to muffle the sound of the loud moan that followed.

John reached for his hands, intertwining their fingers, pulling them over Sherlock’s head. As he continued thrusting into Sherlock’s sensitive hole, he looked at him, “No, Sherlock, no hiding, remember.” With a particular brutal thrust, he growled into his ear. “I want to hear you falling apart around me.”

That broke the dam open and gave Sherlock the permission he needed. He let out a loud ferocious moan; one that John was sure Mrs Hudson and maybe even Mrs. Turner's married ones could hear. As John continued driving into Sherlock’s arse, the short staccato feral grunts he unleashed were a symphony to John's ears, driving him on, chasing their pleasure.

Sherlock wrapped his long legs around John pulling him to drive into him deeper. He looked up and with wild eyes, he pleaded with John, “Harder John, please! God fuck me!”

With a small shift in position, John brought their hands up, placing Sherlock’s on the headboard. He looked down with a wild grin, “I'd hold on if I were you.”

The detective did as he was told and held on to the wood with a death grip before John grabbed under his arse, pulling his legs up, and did not let go.

He fucked Sherlock, fucked him hard; Sherlock’s obscene moans flooding his ears. He could feel Sherlock tightening around him, and John knew that he was close. He wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s neglected cock gloriously bouncing between their bellies to the beat of John's thrusts. He pumped the younger man’s hard flesh to match.

With his other arm, John reached his fingers into Sherlock hair and gripped hard, pulling his head to the side. Sherlock practically growled at the sensation. John latched onto his neck and whispered roughly into his ear, “Come on baby, come for me. Now.” With a final hard tug on Sherlock’s hair and a savage thrust, John felt Sherlock coming undone around him, his orgasm twitching the muscles clamped around John's cock, long threads of his come hitting their stomachs and chests.

The wail Sherlock let out could've woken the dead, but it didn't matter to John. The sight of Sherlock’s face mid-orgasm was enough to tip him over the edge. With a final thrust, he came harder than he ever had, his vision going white along the edges. He felt the wave of pleasure wash over him as his cock pumping his release into Sherlock’s well-fucked hole.

As he tried to regain some semblance of control over his limbs, John could feel Sherlock beneath him, his body still shaking from the force of his orgasm. It was the most beautiful sight he had ever beheld.

John slowly released his grip on Sherlock’s hair, running his fingers along his scalp, kissing him slowly, sweetly. He couldn't stay like that, unfortunately, so slowly, he eased himself out, a slow satisfied whimper coming from Sherlock. John smiled as he sat up, leaning down first to kiss Sherlock’s forehead, tenderly sweeping an errant curl from the man’s face. He slowly stood up, feeling like a wobbly newborn foal on their legs for the first time.

He stepped into the bathroom, where this all began, and smiled. While cleaning himself, he couldn't help but be amazed at this afternoon's turn of events.

He returned to the bedroom, and saw Sherlock spread out, having dozed off apparently, looking thoroughly shagged and John couldn't be happier. _I did this,_ he thought with a certain amount of pride.

He gently kissed Sherlock’s neck to wake him, nudging him over to run a warm flannel over him to clean him. When the warm, rough fabric ran over his sensitive hole, he moaned quietly into his pillow and wiggled his bum at John.

“That's clean enough.” Sherlock rolled over, grabbed the flannel from John, and threw it to the floor. He latched into John, dragging him back down unto the bed with him.

“I believe now is cuddle and sleep time, John, come here.”

John laid down and Sherlock curled around him, holding on to John, kissing him sleepily. John knew they both very badly needed to shower; he still had paint all over him. Right then though, he couldn't be arsed to care. He pulled the duvet over the both of them, then cradled the amazing man he had loved for so long in his arms.

John felt his own sleepiness creeping over him quickly. He rubbed Sherlock’s back waiting for the slow tide of sleep to overtake him, happier than he ever remembered being.

He felt a quiet rumble as Sherlock purred his contentment.

“John?”

“Yes, love?”

“This changes everything, doesn't it?”

John found himself taken back a bit, “No, not really.” He looked at Sherlock, “I've loved you for a very long time. Just as you are, just by you being you. I don't want you to change, I don't expect you to. I fully look forward to you bitching and moaning when we finish working on the bathroom.”

Of course, Sherlock couldn't help grumble at the thought.

“What changes, I hope, is that we're allowed this, if you want it. Allowed to be together, to be openly affectionate. If you want.” Try as he might, John couldn't help the small shred of doubt, that this was a one-off, or some experiment, to creep into his voice, which, of course, Sherlock picked up on.

“Of course I want this, John. I've wanted this for a very long time.”

“Then you have it, for as long as you like.”

“Forever then. That works for me.”

With lazy, tired smiles and slow, unhurried kisses, the two men fell asleep in each other's arms, the promise of forever settling over them like a perfect dream.

**Author's Note:**

> So, here's my first attempt at a nice porny little one-shot. Needed a short break from my longer WIP. 
> 
> Please, feel free to leave any comments, corrections, etc. 
> 
> Not Beta'd or Brit-picked, so I'm sure I missed a thing here or there.
> 
> I can be found elsewhere on the internet @  
> Twitter: [Pufflelock](https://twitter.com/PuffleLock)  
> Tumblr: [Pufflelock](http://pufflelock.tumblr.com)


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